


Milked for all it's worth

by Askellie



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Breast Milking, Collars, Costumes, Crosstale Sans (Undertale), Crosstale Sans/Dusttale Sans (Undertale), Crosstale Sans/Horrortale Sans (Undertale), Crosstale Sans/Killer Sans (Undertale), Degradation, Dirty Talk, Dusttale Sans (Undertale), Ecto-Breasts (Undertale), Horrortale Sans (Undertale), Humiliation, Killer Sans (Undertale) - Freeform, M/M, Masochism, Milking, Penis Milking, Pet Play, Piercings, Roleplay, bad sans poly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28085394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askellie/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: “Leave that open,” Dust says when Cross moves to zip up the costume. “It sets the right kind ofmood, don’t you think?”“Oh, are we gonnamilkthis for all it’s worth?” Killer quips back, sniggering. “Okay, Bessie, youherdhim. Show us your money makers.”--Cross loses a bet. The price is a gallon of milk.
Relationships: Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 289





	Milked for all it's worth

**Author's Note:**

> This is the most shameless 'porn for the sake of porn' thing I have written in a while. I can only blame Skumhuu and [this incredible thread](https://twitter.com/skumhuu/status/1337935685127462913) on twitter. Also this bonus picture of [Cross in a cow onsie](https://twitter.com/skumhuu/status/1338374155452952578). 
> 
> THIS IS JUST PWP FEATURING CROSS DRESSED AS HIS BIGGEST FEAR (SPOILER: IT'S COW).

“I hate you so fucking much,” Cross says with heartfelt sincerity. His glowing flush of embarrassment flares hot enough it’s almost physically painful. His skull feels like it’s going to melt like wax and splatter across the floor, and honestly that would almost be preferable to the punishment he’s about to endure.

“Love you too, babe,” Killer replies sweetly. He holds out the hideous jumpsuit to Cross, his expression full of absolutely maniacal glee. “Put it on.”

There’s no mercy in that order, and Cross isn’t in any position to argue. He grits his teeth in a silent snarl even as he tersely strips off every stitch of his clothing. Being completely barbones isn’t even a fraction as embarrassing as the outfit Killer managed to procure from god knows where. He isn’t sure which idea is more terrifying: that Killer prepared it especially for this occasion, or that it’s something he keeps in his inventory for regular use. 

He reluctantly reaches for the garment only for Killer to playfully hold it out of reach. He deliberately eyes Cross’s exposed body with leering scrutiny, whistling appreciatively through his teeth. “You know, it’s almost a shame to cover all those pretty bones up, but I gotta admit, I can’t wait to see how fucking adorable you’re gonna look in this.”

“I’m going to dust you,” Cross promises darkly. “Next time we’re on a mission you better watch your goddamn back.”

It’s only because he wants this to be over as quickly as possible that he steps aggressively into Killer’s personal space, latching onto his collar so the slippery bastard can’t squirm away. It’s tempting to twist his wrist and tighten the cloth into an unfriendly stranglehold, but the glittering delight in Killer’s empty sockets suggests the bastard would enjoy that even more than Cross would. 

With barely contained disgust, Cross reaches for the despicable outfit and manages to drag it from its hanger. He gives Killer a pointed shove, and rather than catching himself Killer tumbles back in an expert roll that leaves him sprawled out in a perfect position to watch Cross fumble his way into the skimpy, ridiculous costume. It’s a difficult task when he’s trying not to look at the damn thing too closely so he doesn’t end up losing his nerve. 

At least the cow-patterned onesie is very clearly just a cotton replica and not the actual hide of a real creature. He’d rather jump into the antivoid than touch the skin of such a terrifying beast. Even this almost cartoonish facsimile is making him deeply uncomfortable, but that might also have something to do with the absurd shortness of the shorts that barely even cover the tops of his femurs, or the long zippered slit that exposes him from collarbones to waist.

“Leave that open,” Dust says when Cross moves to zip it up. “It sets the right kind of  _ moo _ d, don’t you think?”

“Oh, are we gonna  _ milk _ this for all it’s worth?” Killer quips back, sniggering. “Okay, Bessie, you  _ herd _ him. Show us your money makers.”

“Bet we could sell this shit for a fortune,” Dust speculates. “I know a Lust-verse that’d pay premium for it.”

“Fuck that,” Horror growls, hand twitching reflexively towards his axe. “If you don’t want your share, I’m drinking it.”

Cross rubs his sweaty palms on the fluffy surface of the onesie, resisting the urge to cover his chest even though there’s currently nothing but bone on display. Killer’s leering is expected and infuriating. Seeing the same hunger on Dust and Horror’s faces is unnerving in a way that makes his soul pulse in an unsteady beat. He wishes the legs of the jumpsuit were long enough to hide the telling glow starting to light up the crest of his pelvis, but has to settle for keeping his knees pressed tightly together as he tries to block out the commentary and focus on summoning his magic. 

It’s probably for the best that he didn’t try and seal the front zip because the sudden expansion of his breasts would probably have torn open the garment in a humiliating fashion. It manages to contain them, but only barely, his nipples pressing blatantly into the distended fabric, stretching it obscenely over the generous swell of his chest. It’s equal parts flattering and humiliating how the other three stop and stare at him, mouths slightly agape. The onesie has a hood that Cross pulls gratefully over his skull to shield some of his humiliation as he growls, “What?”

Killer is the first to recover. “Damn, we should have done this ages ago. You got the machine, Dust?”

“Right here.” 

The clunky contraption Dust pulls out of his inventory is a lot more clinical and terrifying than Cross was expecting. He stares at it dumbfound for a moment, wondering if it’s too late to escape even if it means exiling himself from the castle forever...or at least until Nightmare comes back to protect him from this absurdity.

He takes a nervous step back only to run into the unyielding wall of Horror’s chest, not even having noticed the predatory skeleton move to intercept him. Horror’s arms close around him in an embrace that might have seemed tender if not for the warning squeeze that easily drives all the breath from Cross’s lungs.

“Gotta play along, pet,” Horror murmurs, nuzzling against the side of Cross’s skull. The combination of affection and threat make Cross’s knees feel weak, his magic buzzing with adrenaline and want. “You lost the bet. Gotta pay the price.”

“You all cheated,” Cross protests weakly, squirming in Horror’s grip.

Killer barks a laugh. “No rules against cheating. Only about getting caught. And since you suck at counting cards…”

With one arm wrapped securely around Cross’s waist, Horror’s broad, rough-textured hand peels back the open slit of the onesie, allowing one of Cross’s breasts to fall free. It spills out, heavy and tender where it rests atop his ribs. The nipple is embarrassingly pert, already stiffened to an eager peak. Dust gives a satisfied hum of approval, bringing forth one of the suction cups from the machine and aligning it with the flushed, sensitive nub. 

“Hey,” Horror rumbles, distracting Cross from the agonising suspense as Dust takes his time to find the perfect angle of approach. “You gotta do the ears too. That was the deal.”

Cross’s expression screws up in dismay at the reminder. “Ugh, do I have to? This is already bad enou-AH! Fuck, oh fuck, Dust-!”

“Hold still,” Dust orders, more of a directive for Horror than Cross who can’t help but writhe at the sudden painful pinch dragging at his over-sensitive breast. The suction cup is lubricated to create a tighter seal, and it slips slightly with each rumbling pulse of the machine, making his whole body throb.

“Fuck you!” Cross shoots back impotently, struggling to adjust to the brutal suction. Horror’s arm keeps him pinned, but his other hand gently massages the swollen sides of Cross’s breast.

“Ears,” Horror reminds him, his soothing touches briefly tightening into a warning squeeze that makes Cross’s breath catch. With a strangled whimper of sound, Cross focuses on his magic again, shaping a pair of cow ears to match the horrific outfit he’s been forced into. With a bit of wriggling he manages to fit them through the convenient slits in the garment’s hood which seem to exist entirely for that purpose.

“Fucking adorable,” Killer is muttering, lifting his phone to take pictures while Cross seethes at the indignity. “You gonna give us a little moo, Bessie?”

Cross’s guttural snarl of outrage becomes a startled yelp as Dust uncovers his other breast and gives the perky nipple a cruel tug. 

“Come on,” Dust demands, his grin twisted and dangerous. “Moo for us.”

A traitorous, overwhelmed wetness is welling up at the corner of Cross’s sockets. He drags in a few uneven breaths, biting back his furious embarrassment before letting out a soft and stuttering, “M-moo.”

The vicious pressure on his nipple is released, but it's little consolation in the face of the uproarious laughter of his teammates. Killer is literally rolling on the floor, giggling uncontrollably before he manages to get ahold of himself. “Goddamn, you’re a fun time, Bessie. No wonder we haven’t put you out to pasture yet.”

“Such a good girl,” Horror purrs approvingly, petting Cross’s floppy ears in a way that feels despicably good. He wishes the hood was deeper so he could hide more easily among its folds, because it’s doing a piss-poor job of covering anything else. The open slit is pulled wide to allow his breasts to spill out, but the additional padding of his ectobody has made the crotch pull tight between his legs. The tangled fabric is tellingly damp with the aroused magic condensing on the inside of his pelvis.

Cross jerks, biting back another yelp as Dust promptly affixes the second pump to his free breast, giving it a cursory jiggle to ensure it won’t fall off. “Is our little cash cow ready for milking?”

Cross gapes at him, eyelights shrunken to uncertain pinpricks. The question he tries to articulate gets lost in a jumbled gurgle of confusion, but Dust reads his face with ease and sniggers.

“What, you thought the machine was on already? That’s just to keep the cups from falling off. This is what the real deal feels like.”

He flicks a switch, and immediately the powerful suction against Cross’s nipples redoubles to something completely unbearable. His legs fold under him, completely strengthless. It’s only Horror’s arms keeping him upright, the deep baritone rumble of his voice barely registering as Cross’s eyelights roll back in his sockets and his mouth opens in a high-pitched, senseless wail. 

“Put him down,” Killer urges, still gleefully taking pictures. “On all fours.

Horror complies, easing Cross down to the floor and steadying him until his shaking limbs find some measure of balance. The new angle makes his breasts droop towards the floor, hanging pendulously, and the assistance of gravity and the shuddering vibration of the suction cups finally teases out the first trickle of magic from his nipples. The milky purple liquid is quickly siphoned away, travelling up the tube to fill a large, glass container at the end that looks both absurdly and appropriately like a milk bottle.

Dust catches him looking at it, and gives a devious smirk, tapping a finger against the container. “You gotta fill it up before we’re done with you. Hope those tits of yours are as full as they look.”

Cross whimpers, feeling awkward and off balance. The machine is thrumming away, and though the powerful suction is starting to draw a constant stream from his nipples, the pitiful drizzle isn’t making much of a dent in the volume it needs to fill. He’s never tried to summon his breasts for the purposes of lactating, and it feels like they’ll never produce enough to fill the flask.

“Hey, don’t lose concentration,” Killer says, tugging demandingly on one of Cross’s ears. The summoned appendage is flickering, its' solidity threatening to fade in his distraction. “You gotta stay in character until you’re done.”

“I can fix that.” Dust pulls another odd contraption out of his inventory that looks almost like a staple gun. Cross is too overwhelmed to rationalise what it’s for, barely able to keep himself hunched on all fours as his limbs quake from the effort. He doesn’t resist when Dust pulls on one of his floppy, bovine ears, setting the cold metal tip of the implement against the soft flap of false skin. There’s a loud click like a gun going off, and a sudden burning pain like a jolt of electricity.

“Ah-!” The unexpected hurt makes Cross’s sockets spill over, watering profusely. It takes a few seconds for him to equate the agonising pinch with the new dragging weight of the tag now clipped to his ear. The new puncture forces his magic to keep its shape, the magic reinforcing itself to support the foreign intrusion in a way that makes his whole skull tingle oddly. He dimly thinks he should find the whole thing violating and degrading, but his whole body feels tight and strung with need. He fists his hands against the floor so he doesn’t touch himself, but can’t stop his hips from grinding back against Horror’s lap.

“Mmm, you smell good,” Horror murmurs, leaning over Cross to nuzzle at his newly tagged ear. “Our pretty little calfling.”

Cross’s ectoflesh doesn’t have proper veins or blood-vessels, but raw magic seeps from the puncture and Horror greedily laps it up with his tongue. It heightens the pain to an almost euphoric sharpness. Cross makes a senseless sound, eyelights fizzling into diffuse orbs as he rocks back on his haunches. The motion makes his breasts sway heavily, and he feels both of them give a heavy pulse and release a thicker stream of milk into the guzzling suction cups.

Dust’s hand pets the top of his skull with absent affection - like he’s some domesticated beast in need of soothing - before he reaches for Cross’s other, untagged ear.

“Gotta do the other side,” Dust insists in a reasonable tone. “Wouldn’t want you to be uneven.”

Cross keens in protest, but with Horror leaning hard against his back there’s no place for him to retreat. Dust sets the tagging gun against Cross’s ear, taking his time lining it up, clearly enjoying working Cross up into a lather of dread and anticipation. When he finally pulls the trigger, the noise reverberates in Cross’s skull with an impact so jolting it almost feels like an orgasm. Only the painful, pent up feeling of his magic tells him he hasn’t managed to come yet despite all the teasing stimulation. 

Both his ears are throbbing, twitching weakly as the tags dangle back and forth like a pair of oversized earrings. His breath is coming out in ragged gasps, and his soul feels like it’s trying to punch its way out of his chest. The flimsy jumpsuit is drenched in his sweat, tangled and twisting around his bones as he tries to squirm out from under Horror only to be easily pinned by the hand encircling the scruff of his neck. 

“Oh!” Killer suddenly bursts out, finally putting his phone down. “We almost forgot the final touch!”

He cheerfully shoulders Dust out of the way and pulls out a thick choker with a large, clunky cowbell. It lets out the jarring, unmelodious sound that’s haunted some of Cross’s worst nightmares. He flinches, giving a plaintive whine of protest that goes entirely unheeded.

“Here you go, Bessie,” Killer says, his clever fingers fastening the collar tight around Cross’s throat. If he had a windpipe it would be asphyxiating, but even without the need for breath the clinching pressure makes Cross’s marrow sing with alarm and the heady rush of risk. “Now you’re properly tagged and collared so everyone knows who you belong to.”

Cross can’t even manage the usual heated glare he reserves for Killer’s bullshit. The only sounds he can make are inarticulate moans, rising in pitch with the merciless suction of the machine and the hungry tug of Horror’s teeth against his ear. He breaks into a rattling cry when Killer’s hand cups the burning magic fizzling between his legs. 

“Hey Dust,” Killer says mildly, conversationally, like his phalanges aren’t skimming lasciviously over Cross’s pubic bone. “You know, if we’re gonna milk this pretty cow of ours, we’re missing out on some quality product here.”

There’s a hard, demanding press against Cross’s pubic symphysis, Killer’s fingers inscribing their wordless command across the bone, and helplessly Cross feels his magic surge into being. His cock forms already hard and straining against the restrictive fabric in an obscene bulge. 

Dust leans closer, inspecting it with frank consideration. “You’re right. It would be a shame to let that go to waste. Let me hook up the other attachment.”

As Dust turns to fiddle with the machine, Killer slips his hand down the open slit of the jumpsuit and coaxes Cross’s cock into the open, his palm dragging with firm, generous pressure down its length. Cross’s breasts bounce as he rocks into Killer’s hand, wildly chasing the pleasure, heedless of how shameless he looks.

Killer doesn’t seem to mind. He pulls on the rope attached to Cross’s coller, jerking him close enough to lick at the tears still falling heedless down Cross’s cheeks. “That’s real good, honey. You’re a five star heifer. A proper dairy queen, giving us all that precious milk of yours.”

Killer’s dirty has always been humiliatingly awful, and Cross hates it works on him every time. The sweet timbre of Killer’s voice cuts right through his weak restraint, his cock surging eagerly under the attention. He’s teetering on the edge of orgasm when a tight, encompassing pressure swallows him down, clenching fiercely at the base of his shaft to stifle the oncoming orgasm. 

“N-no!” he wails desperately as Dust pulls away, looking pleased with himself. There’s a new tube encasing Cross’s shaft, sucking with the same brutal intensity as the ones around his nipples. He reaches down, thinking only of relieving the excruciating pressure only to have his wrists captured by Horror and drawn away. “Ahh! Fuck, please, please I need-!”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get to come,” Dust promises. “Over and over again, until we decide you’re finished.”

Killer’s hand draws smoothly up the length or Cross’s side, stopping to grope thoughtfully at his breast. “Looks like the more excited he gets the faster it comes out. Guess we better help him along if we don’t want to be here all day.”

The fabric between Cross’s legs feels absolutely soaked, and at some point his magic has started to fill out to form the rest of his ectobody. His thighs are being squeezed by the cropped shorts of the jumpsuit, but there’s still enough space for Horror to slip a finger up between his legs and rub coaxingly at the cleft of Cross’s ass. “I want him first.”

“Go ahead,” Killer says agreeable, sitting back and palming the prominent bulge at the front of his own shorts. “But make him scream, huh?”

Cross is shoved forwards, most of his weight landing on his forearms and voluptuously padded chest as his hips are raised up into the air. It’s an utterly degrading position, and he presses his face against the floor and tries to swallow back the cry that leaves him as Horror’s blunt fingers coarsely stretch him open using the lubrication of his own desperate arousal. He can feel his cock throbbing, the elongated tube encasing his shaft bobbing back and forth as he thoughtlessly spreads his legs and braces his stance in preparation.

The first thrust finally brings him to climax in a blinding, glorious rush. His vision darkens like the onset of night and then sparks with the dazzling explosion of starry fireworks. The warbling sound he makes is unnervingly animal-like, not that he has the sense to recognise it.

And there’s no chance for his senses to recover. Horror pounds into him, fast and deep, leaving him scrambling for traction as he’s fucked into the floor. The pressure around his nipples and cock doesn’t relent. He’s being viciously drained even as he’s fucked beyond his limits, beyond coherency, his breasts providing only a tender, imperfect cushion against the hard ground. With each thrust the bell around his neck makes a morose, strangled chime that sounds downright surreal in Cross’s delirious state.

“Hnn...” he whines, open mouthed and drooling against the floor, too dazed for rational thought, only the instinctive reflex to keep his hips high and his knees spread wide, rocking back as much as he can to meet each of Horror’s thrusts.

“Damn, he’s actually making some headway on that bottle,” Killer remarks, his voice blurred and distant, inconsequential. “Hey, Horror, don’t hog all the fun. Give us a turn before you use him up.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dust says. “I got another bottle. Hundred gold says he can fill them both before we’re finished.”

Killer cackles. “Damn, you’re on. I’d pay a hundred gold just to see that. You’re gonna let us milk you ‘till the cows come home, right Bessie?”

Cross wasn’t in any state to understand the conversation, but the crooning tone and appreciative caresse against his skull made him give a soft, agreeable gurgle. Nothing mattered beyond the droning thrum of the machine and the furious rhythm of his pleasure, rendering him too senseless to recognise anything beyond the onset of his next orgasm. 

  
  
  



End file.
